The Doctor's Daughter
by Eyebrows2
Summary: I always felt we never heard enough about Watson's "sad bereavement". What happened to Mary Watson? Why did he never elaborate? Some deeply weepy and some very happy moments, with hope at the end of it all - and the Doctor's Daughter. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1: Waiting

**The Doctor's Daughter**

**Chapter 1: Waiting**

I paced the confines of my small sitting room yet again, my heels repeating a regular tattoo upon the worn carpet. Sit down, leap to my feet, pace, sit down again. I was strictly moderating myself with regards to the tantalus of whisky, only a small measure of which had so far been poured and drank – I did not want to be sottish on this of all occasions - but I found myself longingly eying the glass on the side table. I threw myself into my chair again, and opened my cigarette case, before closing it again with a snap. I did not want to bring a cloud of tobacco fumes into the bedroom either.

I had never missed Sherlock Holmes more keenly, in all the near three years since his death at Reichenbach. I had other cronies of course, many of whom would have been willing to share this vigil with me, but I wished only for Holmes. His presence would have been soothing, he would have distracted me, taken me out of myself, and moderated my whisky intake for me. My wait was lonely indeed without companionship, and I was in danger of sinking into melancholy. The closest of my other acquaintances, Anstruther, was otherwise, very importantly, engaged; in seeing to my wife. Tonight, I hoped, we would greet our first born child for the first time.

I wished I could be allowed into Mary's chamber, but it was clearly inappropriate. Instead, I jumped whenever I heard a groan or a cry, and drove myself to distraction with my own helplessness and anxiety. I had gnawed my fingernails down, a habit I had not indulged in since childhood, and I relished the sharp little pain as I bit into the quick. I wished I could have shared some of my dear Mary's pain, but there was nothing to be gained in pointless fancy.

What was taking so long? Mary's pains had begun almost four and twenty hours previously, and the muffled injunctions to push had started one hundred and sixteen minutes ago. I leapt up, intending to storm up the stairs, and demand to know what was happening, but controlled myself in time. Primiparous women would often endure a long second stage of labour, one did not require a degree in medicine to know this. I would always be more sympathetic to prospective fathers in future, after such a wait. What if something had gone wrong? Terror gripped me, not for the first time that night, and I was hit by such a wave of empathy for every stillbirth, and worse, I had ever attended, that I could have wept for the sadness of it all. It was not uncommon for young women to die in childbed, and the first day of life was also the most dangerous for the baby.

The ticking of the clocks in the quiet house was deafening. I had never noticed that the ormolu clock on the mantle and the long case clock in the hallway were slightly out of time with each other, and I found it increasingly irritating. At least it served to convince me they had not stopped, although that had not stopped me examining their workings.

The noise level upstairs had increased slightly. My brave wife appeared to have been bearing her labours with great fortitude and little complaint, but now I heard her cry out in pain and distress, and I felt hot tears on my face at the sound, which I dashed away angrily. There was urgency in the voice of Anstruther and the midwife, and then, to my joy, I could distinguish the command,

"Breath, Mary! Just pant now, good girl!"

I held my own breath, and waited. I was quite lightheaded when I heard it – the voices raised in joy, and, the most beautiful sound, the squawl of a baby. Before I knew it, I was racing up the stairs two at a time, a huge grin on my face, and only stopped myself outside the room. Mrs Benton the midwife was a formidable dame, and would have some very pungent comments indeed if any young father barged in before she had had the chance to get mother and baby looking presentable. I leaned against the wall outside the room like a naughty schoolboy waiting outside the headmaster's office, and jiggled from foot to foot in a frenzy of impatience. The door suddenly opened, and the tiny form of Mrs Benton was framed in it, her face severe apart from the slight creasing around her eyes and upward tilt to her lips.

"Whit do ya think ye're doin', Dr Watson?" she frowned at me, in her strong Scottish brogue, and I hung my head and shuffled my feet. She softened slightly, and placed her hand on my arm. "Dinnae fret, Doctor. All's weel. Ye have a bouncin' bonny bairn, and _if _ye will gie me a few minutes tae make all fit tae be seen, _then _ye may come in and say welcome."

She disappeared back into our bedroom, leaving me giddy with relief and beaming with pleasure. A _baby_! _Our_ baby! It occurred to me I had not asked the sex of my child, but it mattered not, so long as they were hearty. I exchanged pacing the living room carpet for pacing the corridor outside our bedroom, but now there was a spring in my step, and I could not stop smiling.

Mrs Benton reappeared, and Anstruther was behind her. He shook my hand with a huge grin.

"Who's a clever lad, then? Congratulations, and why don't you go and see what you've done!"

"I really didn't do all that much." I answered in the same vein.

"Ye di' enoo" snorted Mrs Benton, unembarrassable as I blushed. "Although dear Mary's the clever one. Noo stop hammerin fit tae wake the did on the floor outside an' get ye i' there an' greet your bairn."

I stepped through the door thrilling with excitement. There was my darling Mary, looking tired and flushed, but cheerful. In her arms was a little white bundle, which she was gazing upon. She lifted her eyes at my approach, and they were glowing with joyfulness.

"John! Come and meet your daughter. Isn't she beautiful?"

I am aware that many men are underwhelmed by the human infant with its red crumpled appearance; I have never been one of their number. I have always liked babies, but I was not prepared for the rush of love that hit me when I lifted the lace blanket to one side and stared at the tiny person wrapped up in it. To me, she was perfect. A mop of impossibly soft brown hair crowned her tiny head. Tiny hands clenched and stretched. Her tiny nose wrinkled, and her tiny mouth opened and closed as the turned her tiny head from side to side. I was smitten, hypnotised, a slave forever. I could not tear my eyes away, I just drank her in, the little movements she made, learning movements of the face that would one day express complex emotions and meanings, but were for now just practice.

"She is perfect. Wonderful. Oh, my clever, clever girl, I love you so very much!" I burst out, pulling my wife and daughter close to me, kissing both, and not sure which I addressed as I spoke. I placed my little finger in my daughter's hands, and the miniature, perfect fingers gripped tightly. She tried to pull my finger to her mouth, making sucking motions, and Mary and I laughed.

"She is hungry" said Mary, chuckling again as she saw my rapt expression. "I feel I must be a poor second in your affections now" she teased, her eyes twinkling.

"I love you both, equally, and enormously" I replied virtuously.

I called Mrs Benton in to assist latching our new daughter to the breast. Fortunately, her conservatism did not extend to fathers being expelled from the room during suckling – quite the opposite. She scolded gently, whilst easily directing operations, and my baby girl was soon feeding contentedly. Mrs Benton withdrew softly, commanding me to call her if we encountered any difficulties, and adjuring me to inform her when the baby was ready for burping, in magnificent disregard for my medical qualifications.

Mary and I sat, entranced, as our daughter fed. Those moments will forever be sealed on my consciousness as the happiest of my life. No matter what would follow, no matter what trials I had bourn before and would bear subsequently, I would keep this shining moment and relive it, treasure it, and it would never lose its lustre or fade. Eventually, Mary spoke.

"Well, what shall we call her? Is she an Elspeth Grace, or a Grace Elspeth?" At this moment, baby drew up her little knees and emitted a sound worthy of the brass section of an orchestra. We both burst out in spontaneous hilarity.

"Oh, we cannot call her Grace after that! My dear girl, I never heard anything so unladylike! You will never be fit for polite society if you behave in this manner!"

"Elspeth it is, then. Elsie."

I stroked the soft cheek with one finger. "Hallo, Elsie" I whispered.

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_I'm glad to give the Watsons this moment. Some things will always be wonderful, and they do deserve it. _

_Continued in chapter 2._


	2. Chapter 2: Fever

**The Doctor's Daughter**

**Chapter 2: Fever**

I could scarcely believe it could be this easy.

Mary seemed to have taken motherhood in her stride. Elsie was the grand age of four days old, and proving herself to be the model baby. She fed well, slept well, and spent a goodly portion of the time in between entrancing her parents by absorbing the world around her with wide grey-green eyes. Mary had suffered some minor injuries during the birth, but she was mobilising carefully about the bedroom, and was beginning to express an interest in coming down the stairs. The only cloud on our sunny horizon was that Anstruther had succumbed the day following Elsie's delivery to a violent attack of influenza, and neither Mary nor myself took to the deputy who arrived in his stead. A dour, arrogant man, he displayed scant respect for his patients, and although he was competent enough, he quite upset Mary with his attitude of superiority. I believe we offended him in turn, for he sent his own deputy around the following day, a rather feckless youth, who examined Mary somewhat roughly. I determined to take over her care myself from this point, feeling I had discharged my duty in adding an initial layer of objectivity between my wife and baby and myself.

Mary seemed to glow from within with the pleasure of motherhood. She hummed lullabies about the house, and small secret smiles would steal across her face unbidden. I thought she had never looked so lovely, with the extra facet added to her personality spilling out onto her countenance. I could hardly bring myself to break away and attend to the calls of my patients, but I had an extra mouth to feed, and Anstruther's illness meant his own patients needed attention. Fortunately, the weather was unseasonably mild, and I was able to bide at home with my new little family for longer than I would normally have hoped for in winter, letting it be known I was only available for essential calls.

On the fifth day following the birth of our daughter, I had been delayed for longer than expected by an elderly lady with pneumonia. I was feeling well satisfied with her progress, and allowed myself a little self-congratulation as I wended my way homeward. I stopped and purchased some ridiculously early snowdrops on my route home, knowing they would delight my wife.

Mary was nursing Elsie on my return. She looked up and smiled at me as I entered the sitting room, and started to exclaim in delight at snowdrops in January, but I froze on the threshold and stared fixedly at her.

"Mary, my love – are you quite well? You look exceedingly flushed."

"Oh, yes, um, I do feel a little warm. It must be the fire; Agnes _will_ stock it up as if I were a hothouse plant, and it has been so mild recently." She was a little too quick to reassure, and I strode over to her, and held my hand to her forehead. I felt a small cold sliver of fear slide down my stomach, at what I felt.

"You're burning up, darling! Do you have any other symptoms – cough, cold-like symptoms, mastitis, vomiting?"

"Not really. I feel a little shivery. And...no, I'm sure it can be nothing, it must be only natural."

"What?"

"Well, I admit I am a little tender down below. It is probably just the stitches, and a baby has passed through after all."

"Mary! That could potentially be serious. I will ask Dr Green to attend to you immediately."

"Oh, no, not that great misery. Or that pudding-faced, dirty finger-nailed acolyte of his, if you please. I would far rather dispense with the proprieties and have you see to me yourself, my love."

I did not hear the end of her sentence, as my attention had been grabbed by a phrase which had amplified the sliver of fear into a cold hand of dread squeezing my heart.

"_Dirty fingernails_?"

"Yes indeed. I only noticed after he had finished mauling me about. Disgusting really, especially when I consider how meticulous you are about cleanliness". She spoke with an asperity which was unusual in her. I virtually croaked out my next question.

"Have you had any abdominal pain, Mary?"

"Well, just a little. But, well, I am a little, um, _constipated_, you know. It will settle down."

"Where does it hurt?"

"Quite low down. Here, and here." She indicated the iliac regions. "But really, dear, it is perfectly tolerable. I feel a little bloated, that's all."

"Are you thirsty?"

"Why, yes, rabidly! I have got through _pints_ of barley water today; Agnes had to go out to buy fresh lemons for me...." Mary tailed off, looking at me sharply. "John... you are worried. I can always tell. What do you believe my symptoms to be?"

I attempted to prevaricate. I could hardly dare voice it myself, for then it would be real. "I should be a poor physician if I did not examine my patient before making a diagnosis" I blustered, with mock heartiness.

"_John!_"

I forced myself to look into her eyes, to see and share the fear I saw enter them as I respected her wishes, and voiced my trepidation.

"I am worried about puerperal fever, Mary" I whispered hoarsely. She was silent. Every woman knows those dread words, and what, tragically, they so frequently mean. She looked down at Elsie, asleep in her arms, and tears welled in her eyes for a moment.

"I see. Thank you for telling me."

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_Poor, poor Watsons! _

_Puerperal fever, now grouped into several separate diseases, was the scourge of childbirth. Starting around day 1-10 (typically day 3) with a fever, thirst and abdominal pain and distension, it rapidly progressed. Massively reduced since midwives and doctors recognised the value of washing their hands, it was a terrifying infection in the nineteenth century, before the advent of antibiotics. Watson, as a conscientious and modern physician would have recognised the preventative value of hygiene, as would most doctors by this era, but it would not have been universal. He would also have known the tragically high mortality, with 80% of women contracting the illness dying within a few days. Mary would have known this too._


	3. Chapter 3: Practicalities

**The Doctor's Daughter**

**Chapter 3: Practicalities**

"I am sure it is nothing," I said, injecting my voice with confidence. "If you will accompany me upstairs, I shall examine you."

Mary obediently took my hand and rose from the sofa. To my consternation, she turned a little pale as she stood, and swayed upon her feet. I steadied her, holding her close, and half-carried her up the stairs to our chamber. Her brow was damp with perspiration as we arrived, and she was breathing quickly. I helped her undress, and laid her upon the bed. I then performed a medical examination, and my mind began screaming.

A red line of erythema was tracking its way up her abdomen, which was indeed distended. She winced when I laid my hand upon it. I also examined her wounds from the process of childbirth, and found there to be considerable evidence of purulence. I cleansed the area as best I could, and inserted a potassium permanganate pessary, it the hope of stilling the infection. I could barely speak. I think my face must have communicated my emotions, because my lovely wife, God bless her soul, began to try to comfort _me_.

"Do not worry, John. There is nothing more you could have done, and whatever will be will be, but I do not intend to sink into a decline. I am young and fit, I have every reason to wish to live, and my husband is the best doctor in London." She smiled bravely at me, and I clutched her hands convulsively.

"You are quite correct, my Darling. We will overcome this together, and look back on this fright as trivial, as we celebrate our daughter's first birthday." We were whistling in the dark, but it made us feel better.

"We must be practical, I suppose" sighed Mary, entwining her fingers with mine. "I may struggle to produce sufficient milk for Elsie. We must think of a wet nurse, in case I find myself deteriorating." My mind rebelled against preparing for an eventuality I abhorred, yet I knew my wife to be correct. "I should like to meet them," she continued resolutely, "it is an important undertaking, suckling our child."

"Very well" I concurred, attempting to match her sensible vein. "I shall ask Mrs Benton to recommend a suitable, respectable girl."

"Would you pass Elsie to me in the meantime? I should like to capitalise on my abilities whilst they are still present."

"Of course." I gathered our beautiful daughter up from her crib, and passed her to Mary. I watched, entranced, as Mary settled her onto the breast. How could such a picture of domestic bliss have such a dark shadow hanging over it?

That afternoon, I approached Mrs Benton upon the subject of wet-nurses. She was shocked, good soul, to hear of Mary's condition, but she reiterated much the same reassurances Mary had. She told me she knew of "a gud, sweet girl, jest delivered o' a bonny wee lad the day after Mary". She would send her to our house that very evening, if I so desired. I did desire it, and imparted the news to Mary, whose flush had deepened, and who had developed a little crease between her eyebrows, and a habit of gingerly laying her palm upon her lower abdomen. She nodded, satisfied, and held out her hand to me. I sat beside her and gathered her into my arms, stroking her hair, my chin resting atop her head, breathing in the scent of her. I thought wistfully of that moment – could it have been only four days ago – when I had held my wife and daughter together, not a care in the world.

Ruth, the wet-nurse, called around that evening, and she _was_ a sweet girl. My heart was quite wrung at the sight of her. She was pale and thin, and her clothes, though neat as wax, were old and patched. She held her head high with a gentle pride which elevated her above her evident poverty. She brought with her her daughter, a pretty child of three, and her newborn son. I could see why Mrs Benton had wanted to point her towards a little more income. I took her upstairs to meet Mary, and her behaviour in the sick room made me warm towards her all the more. She was quiet and solicitous, but displayed none of the nervousness or disgust others not previously initiated to illness sometimes betray. The warmth of her character was plain, and my wife was evidently taken with her. When Mary bade Ruth to meet my daughter, Ruth picked her up so tenderly, and held her in her arms so naturally, instinctively beginning to hum a beguiling tune, it was almost settled. When she admitted that her husband was a soldier, away at war, and that she had not received any income from him for some months, attempting to make ends meet by taking in washing and sewing (this devoid of bitterness, and told in a matter-of-fact explanation of how she found herself so situated), Mary was a devotee.

I offered Ruth and her daughter something to eat, and caught the gleam in her eye. In keen sympathy, I asked her if she had other children or dependents at home, and when she replied in the negative, I suggested it would be of great benefit to us if she would stay in our house, with bread and board and no diminution of her wages. She looked as if I had showed her the Promised Land, and acquiesced delightedly, no doubt revelling in the lifting of the pressure of providing food and shelter for a short while. I determined that even if Mary made a quick recovery, we would have good use for Ruth as a nursemaid.

I left my new charges happily munching Shepherd's pie, and returned to Mary. She had fallen into a light sleep, but she woke up at my entrance.

"It is a weight off my mind to find Ruth, my Love. She will look after Elsie wonderfully". There was a gentle acceptance in her voice which frightened me. Was her body already telling her what her future might hold?

"She will certainly make an excellent nursemaid when you are recovered." She smiled at me, and it was like an adult humouring a child, hiding a sad truth as long as possible. "How are you feeling, my beautiful?"

"I must confess, my stomach is rather sore. It would be bearable if I did not feel so nauseous." She illustrated this sentiment by retching suddenly, and as I held her over a basin and stroked her hair from her eyes, she clutched her abdomen, and gave pitiful little whimpers of pain. The fit passed, and she sunk back, grey-faced and glistening, tears upon her cheeks.

"Oh, I am so thirsty!" she whispered, and I helped her to drink some barley water, then wet a flannel in cold water and mopped her face with it. She still appeared drawn.

"Will you let me give you something for your pain?"

"I do not wish for any horrid drugs. They will make me less lucid, I shall not remember... not remember this, or you, or anything properly, and I so wish to remember!"

"Mary, my sweet, lovely one, that is not true. And even if it were, what kind of a doctor would I be if I allowed you to suffer so? Please, I cannot stand to see you in pain. Will you allow me to give you a small dose of morphine, just to help you?"

There was a long pause before she answered, but then she murmured "Very well. Please do what you must."

My hands shook as I prepared the little hypodermic syringe with morphine, and I had a sudden vivid recollection of Holmes, deliberately viewing the veins in his pock-marked forearm. The pang that always accompanied remembering my poor friend now brought with it a new sensation. Terror. Terror that I was about to be left again, by the second person in my life to mean the world to me.

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_Continued in chapter 4. Please read and review. _

_I'm very glad I live in the antibiotic era._


	4. Chapter 4: Darkness falling

**The Doctor's Daughter**

Chapter 4: Darkness Falling

Two days passed by.

I spent almost every hour with Mary in our bedroom, now turned sickroom. I tried everything that was known to medical science to halt the course of the illness, but in spite of it all, I watched my beloved wife decline.

On the second day, Anstruther struggled from his own sickroom to offer his assistance, and his grief on my behalf seemed to break through my denial, and confirm to me that I was losing her. There was nothing he could do, except to corroborate my diagnosis, which had never really been in any doubt. He was wracked with guilt that his illness may have indirectly led to Mary's, and I heard myself, in my best professional tones, reassuring him that he could not have predicted this, and that, indeed, the likelihood was that the infection had set in before even his grubby-handed colleague had made his arrival. When he left, I felt almost overwhelmed by bitter gall, and directed my hatred towards Anstruther, and his lieutenants, particularly those with dirty fingernails. I controlled myself, and returned to my Mary.

She was lying propped against the pillows, her face as pale as the bed-linen, apart from the livid spot of fever on each cheek. At my approach she opened eyes unnaturally bright, and turned her head towards me.

"_John."_ He voice was a faint whisper, terribly weak, but I could see at once that she was in a lucid phase, not trapped in the delirium brought on by fever and morphine, where she would pick at the sheets as if insects crawled upon them, and murmur incoherently. I felt a brief shaft of joy at seeing my wife back behind those eyes.

"Mary." I took both her hands and kissed her forehead, smiling into her eyes.

"You look so tired, my darling."

"It is nothing, Mary. You must not worry yourself."

"How is Elsie?"

"Beautiful! I never saw such a contented baby. She cries when she wishes to be fed, but otherwise she is as happy as a sandboy. Her eyes are so like yours. Shall I have Ruth bring her to you?"

"Soon. I would like to talk with you first, my love, just the two of us."

"Of course. You must not tire yourself, though."

A spark of the old mischief came back into her eyes. "All these things I must not do! You are turning into a tyrant, John!"

I stroked her hair off her hot forehead, and she closed her eyes in pleasure. "You married me, Mary. You must bear with the consequences of a bossy, fussy husband." My heart fluttered with pleasure at the smile our gentle banter brought to her lips. "Now what did you want to speak to me about?"

She opened her eyes and looked at me seriously. She then sighed. "John, I think it must be obvious by now that I may very well not survive this."

My hands twitched around hers, and I tried to quiet her, but she was determined.

"We must be realistic, Darling. If I die, I would wish you to marry again. It is not fitting a man as lovely as you should be alone, and I should like Elsie to have a mother figure in her life."

The pain was unbearable. I tried for levity, to push the horrible truth away. "Would you like me to go out and fetch a bride now, so that you can personally vet her?"

"John." She smiled again, but she was in earnest. "I mean it. I cannot bear how unhappy you should be if I were to die – the thought of losing _you_ makes me shudder, and perhaps it is selfish of me to be glad it is myself and not you in this position. But I want you to carry on with your life. I know you will be a wonderful father to Elsie, it is also my dearest wish that you be happy again some day. Please, promise me you will carry on living, and not bury you heart with me." She was becoming distressed, which was more than her beleaguered frame could stand; her breathing became rapid, and she shuddered. I gathered her into my arms, and bent myself to the task of soothing her.

"If you were taken from me, Mary, I would be more heartbroken than I could say. But I promise you I would carry on with life, and continue to love our daughter. Please, do not ask me to promise to marry another – I cannot bear it at the moment – but I will promise to try to be happy, and I will take no oaths to never marry another. How is that?"

"Thank you, John. I wrote two letters yesterday, whilst you were sleeping beside me. One is for you, one is for Elsie. They are in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. If I do not live, please look for them."

"Yes." I could manage no more than that brief, choked word. I held her close until she fell back in to a troubled sleep, then settled her comfortably on the pillow, and settled back into my own vigil of watching over her.

I was interrupted half an hour later by Ruth gently knocking upon the door and entering.

"There's a Mrs Martha Hudson to see you, Doctor. Begging your pardon, but she's brought round the most beautiful looking steak and kidney pudding, and it would do you good to eat. I could watch over Mrs Watson for a while, if you wished to see her, and take some food. She's brought the prettiest dress for the baby as well."

I glanced at Mary. She was sleeping, and my stomach growled at the mention of food. It was some time since I had seen Mrs Hudson, and I felt I would appreciate her kind motherliness, not to mention her legendary steak and kidney pie. "Thank you, Ruth. I shall go downstairs. Please call me if Mary awakes. Kind of Mrs Hudson to call."

"She's having a cuddle with Elsie, Doctor – she told me you wouldn't mind. I haven't told her much besides that Mrs Watson is poorly."

I limped wearily down the stairs. My leg and shoulder never usually pained me in such lovely weather as we had been having, but they ached grindingly today. Mrs Hudson was standing by the fireplace with my daughter in her arms, rocking her back and forth and making an array of extraordinary cooing noises. She looked up as I entered the room.

"What a beautiful baby you have, Dr Watson! You must congratulate Mrs Watson for me as well – I'm sorry to hear she's poorly." She then looked at me more carefully as I came into the lighter part of the room, and saw my rumpled clothes, my substandard shaving and my haggard countenance with deep circles under my eyes, for she exclaimed "Why, Doctor, you look dreadful! What is wrong? Is Mrs Watson very unwell?"

I paused. "Yes, I'm afraid she is grievously unwell." I heard myself saying, with forced composure. I paused again, as a look of intense sympathy crossed Mrs Hudson's face. "I am afraid she has puerperal fever, and it is not going well with her..." At this point, the impact of my own words hit me, and suddenly I was weeping, as I had not done yet. I sank onto the sofa, and buried my head in my hands, wracked by my own misery, whilst great sobs shook my whole frame. There was no energy left in me to feel embarrassed at this display. Mrs Hudson must have laid Elsie down, and sat next to me, for I felt her hand on my shoulder, and heard her uttering soft, sorrowful, yet comforting words, although I could not remember what they were. I felt some measure of relief when I had had out my cry, and dried my eyes with my handkerchief.

"My apologies, Mrs Hudson. I daresay you did not expect such a reception."

"My poor dear, you must not apologise. I am so very sorry for your trouble, and for Mrs Watson. You must keep your strength up though. Allow me to fetch you some food."

She bustled about, and brought her good food to me on a tray, urging me to stay seated on the sofa as I ate it, as if I myself were an invalid. The hearty fare stuck in my throat a little, and I could barely taste the succulent flavour, but I felt better for something lining my stomach. I thanked her sincerely.

"Do you wish to talk about matters further, Doctor? I know a friendly ear may make troubles easier to bear."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. There is not a lot to say. Mary lies mortally ill of puerperal fever, and I wish to God I could help her, but I can do nothing. Oh, I blame myself. I knew the dangers of childbirth, I should have protected my girl more." The guilt battered at me as I acknowledged it; even if I knew it to irrational, it was powerful.

"Now, Doctor, you know yourself those are foolish words. Mrs Watson was a young and healthy woman when you must have been trying for your baby. I am certain she wanted it as much as you did."

"She had more risks to run."

"Every woman does, and we know it. I have been a mother myself, three times over, and there is nothing to compare with that love and joy you feel when you see your child for the first time. No-one who has known that would ever exchange it for a life of safety, even if it be ever so filled with riches. There is not a day or night when a mother would not lay down her life for her child. Mrs Watson has seen and held her beautiful girl, remember that. No matter what happens, she will still count bringing that child into the world as the greatest thing she has ever done."

Mrs Hudson gently picked up the sleeping Elsie from the sofa next to her, and handed her to me. "Take you daughter, Dr Watson, and go to your wife. Enjoy the two of them as best you can. Look into her eyes when she holds your girl. You will see what I mean."

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_Well done, Mrs Hudson. Who would have thought you could be such a good motivational speaker._

_Gosh, this is getting emotional. Sorry for all the not-so-subtle twanging of the heart strings, but I hope you're enjoying it. Please let me know if you are with a review. Continued in the next chapter, if you can bring yourself to read on._


	5. Chapter 5: The Photographer

**The Doctor's Daughter**

**Chapter 5: The Photographer**

Later that day, a photographer visited our house. Mrs Hudson fetched him herself. He was a kind, gentle soul, who may have been boundlessly chirpy when in his own studio, but who on this day exuded a quiet respect. I do not know why he reminded me of Holmes.

I had taken my dear former landlady's advice, and cradled my daughter in my arms next to Mary, watching the two of them sleep, and craving from the depths of my soul that I could freeze the tableau for all eternity, and continue to inhabit it. The idea then came to me, and I knew Mary would love it, take great comfort from it.

Mrs Hudson had offered to hover about the house, and I had accepted – somehow her familiarity, and her connection with happier times, helped to ease my pain. When my idea occurred to me, I had communicated it to her, and she had sallied forth, to fetch the photographer, despite any prior arrangements he may have had. She told me later that she had experienced one of those small events which reinforce one's faith in humanity. The young couple in the studio had insisted upon the photographer's abandoning their session, and the lady detached the pretty blue lace ribbon sash from her gown, and pressed it into Mrs Hudson's hand "for the poor little Baby". Mrs Hudson gave it to me, saying it had been a kindly meant gift.

Mary was awake, just, and she whispered to me to tie the sash around Elsie's waist. We had dressed her in the dress Mrs Hudson had intricately embroidered, and my wife's tired eyes glowed with pride and love.

As I had expected, Mary had been enchanted by the idea of photographing our little family together, and revived sufficiently to participate a little. I fetched warm water, and tenderly washed her face, brushed and tidied her hair, arranging it into the long, loose plait she liked to wear when sleeping. I helped her into her best nightgown, and the frivolous lacy dressing-gown I had purchased for her birthday. She had the translucent beauty of the consumptive, dead-white but for the hectic flush upon her cheekbones and the glow of her lips. Her eyes, bright with fever, contrived to make her appear more exquisite than I had ever seen her, but so fragile, so transient.

I dressed with unusual care, in my best suit, the suit I had worn upon my wedding day. I absently noticed that I fitted it again.

Our finery was nothing to the simple, precious fact that we were all together. The photographer did not arrange us formally, as I would have expected. He merely helped me gather my wife and daughter in my arms, and ensured his camera could see all three of us. It was as if Elsie knew the importance of the event, for rather than straining and blowing bubbles with extraordinary facial contortions as infants are wont to do at these moments, she opened her eyes, and looked about her. I have one photograph where all our eyes seem to meet, yet can still be seen by the camera.

The photographer then captured my wife and daughter together, myself and my daughter together, and my wife and I together.

He ran off quickly when his task was done, promising to develop the photographs as rapidly as he was able. Mary slumped back on her pillows, utterly exhausted, but a shade of contentment on her strained face.

The photographer was as good as his word, and returned with the prints more rapidly than I ever would have imagined possible.

They took my breath away. I still cannot see my pen for the misting of my eyes as I remember that first moment I laid eyes upon them.

I was afraid Mary would not be lucid enough to appreciate the photographs. She had slept, fitfully but continually, since the photographer's departure. However, she awoke, and focussed upon them. Her eyes filled with tears, but a look of rapture crossed her features.

"Thank you" she whispered, and I have never heard such heartfelt words, with so much meaning behind them.

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_Continued in chapter 6 - not such a long wait this time._

_I now feel emotionally drained, so please reward my efforts with a review._


	6. Chapter 6: The Night and the dawn

**The Doctor's Daughter**

**Chapter 6: The Night and the Dawn**

It was as if Mary had been holding herself together to see those photographs. Afterwards, she began to slip away.

No, she did not slip. Slip does not do justice to it. The ethereal look captured on the photographs was soon superseded by a twisted look. Her face had changed shape, she hardly looked like my Mary. Her breathing became harsh and rattling, and I had to wipe away secretions from around her mouth. Every so often, she would violently shudder, and pluck at the bedclothes. She cried out weakly. Her complexion became grey and clammy, and sagging. The lovely, vibrant young woman was no more, trapped in the wretched body that had betrayed her so utterly. Death was beginning to stalk her, and It was horrible, and undignified, ugly even. But I still loved and cherished my beloved wife as much as ever.

That night, she stilled again, and I almost thought her gone. She looked more herself again. Then I heard the softest voice call to me.

"_John."_

I clutched her hand, kneeling on the floor so as to bring my face next to hers, desperate to prolong this moment of clarity.

"Mary. I am here, my Love. Oh, God, my love, my one and only love."

My voice was threatening to break, but I felt the slightest squeeze of her hand again.

"I am so sorry. So sorry I must leave you, when I love you so much. And Elsie. I know you will care for her and keep her safe."

"She will want for nothing, Mary, my sweet life. She is part you, and part I, and indescribably precious. She will not know danger or hardship, and no child will know herself to be more loved."

"You will tell her about me? Tell her that I loved her more than life itself?" she whispered savagely.

"Of course I will. Every, tiny detail. I will write it all down, and I will tell her as I tuck her in to sleep at night. I will continually tell her about you. I will speak about you constantly, if only to remember your face the more.... _Don't go, Mary_. Please, stay with me"

By now, I was blinded with tears, and I clutched my wife's hands in both of mine, pressing them to my cheek, the tears pouring down my face and falling over her soft fingers as I kissed them again and again. My body was racked with sobs, which I no longer attempted to conceal. We both knew now what was inevitable, and my Mary would never deny me my grief.

"Please hold me, John. Watch over me tonight, don't let me be alone."

I lay on the bed beside her, gathering her to me and holding her gently. I looked into those eyes one last time, memorising them as I spoke.

"Just promise me you will watch over me, if you can. Watch over us."

"Always. I will always love you."

"I love you so very much, my Angel. So very, very much. I will be here beside you." _To the End_, my mind whispered bitterly to me, but I could not say it.

I held my wife in my arms, her head beneath my chin, breathing in the scent of her, still present, as I stroked her hair. Elsie was with Ruth. Tonight, it was just we two, till Death us do part.

A strange peace was stealing over me. I listened to the sound of her breathing, as it became softer, less harsh. Until each breath became shallower, and further apart. Until it stopped.

I kissed her cold forehead, and rose from the bed. It was still dark in our bedroom, but I could see the dawn light was beginning to creep greyly through the curtain. I would not look upon her face again.

I entered the tiny bedroom next door, the nursery. Elsie lay in her cot, Ruth slumbering peacefully in the bed, her own little boy in a Moses basket and her daughter in a truckle bed beside her. Silently, I gathered up my daughter, and carried her downstairs with me.

We had a little garden. Mary loved to tend it. I opened the back door, and breathed in the scent of the dawn. The rose coloured light stole across the sky, illuminating the delicate features of my daughter. I gazed alternately at her face, then up at the sky, watching high inky clouds scurry across it. I still felt that strange serenity, as I if were floating alongside them, carried on the morning breeze.

Elsie's fingers suddenly closed around my finger, tugging me back to Earth, and her eyes opened. I kissed her, snuggled my face against her warmth, then met those eyes again, and whispered down to her.

"Good morning, my Love. It's a beautiful day. Your Mama always liked the early mornings. Let me tell you a story about her ...."

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"_Sob." I'm so sorry. I really didn't want to do that in the end._

_The story continues in Chapter 7._

_Please review._


	7. Chapter 7: The Songbird

**The Doctor's Daughter**

**Chapter 7: The Songbird**

It was a glorious, crisp sunny day, the warm spell continuing. A hardy songbird was singing sweetly in the trees around the churchyard. Mary would have been able to identify it from its song – she loved such things, and was knowledgeable, despite her childhood spent in India. I found myself focussing on the birdsong, rather than the sermon – the pastor was not saying anything I did not know, and I was not sure I believed or cared for the God he invoked, who had taken so much from me. And from Mary. She had so wanted to be a mother, and now she would never see her baby grow into a woman.

The song trilled into a particularly beautiful cadence of bright, babbling notes, reminiscent of light reflected on the surface of a fast flowing brook. I allowed it to carry my attention with it, away from the quiet, black-clad crowd around the freshly dug earth, and back to earlier, happy days with my Mary. It seemed a fitting tribute, to follow the call of the natural world around me, which she had loved, and to dwell on the vibrant, living woman, and not the dry words, recited by a pastor who had said them all before, and would say them countless times again.

In an instant, I was in Baker Street, won over in an instant by the expression in Miss Mary Morstan's blue eyes. She had worn a neat beige suit, and a jaunty white feather in her hat, to relieve the austerity of her apparel. Somehow, that little feather had wrung my heart; a defiant expression of the merry soul within. She had entreated me to help her, and I had done so more willingly than anything else in the world.

I was in the dark surrounds of Pondicherry Lodge, and Mary's hand was in mine, so naturally, so instinctively, for the first time.

I was drawing her to me, after the Agra Treasure was lost, for our first kiss, so very sweet and chaste.

I was grinning at her in ecstatic, wolfish delight, the expression mirrored on her own face, following the first kiss I shared with her along less decorous lines. Perilously close to the mark, for a couple not yet wed, yet in our passion, I fancied I could feel our souls intertwine.

I was speaking my vows to her on our wedding day, my voice not quite steady, hers clear, calm and utterly assured, not a hint of doubt in her joyous face. Holmes was handing me the rings, and I was slipping the plain gold band onto her dainty finger. We had danced for hours afterwards, our happiness and merriment seeming to infect the whole gathering, so that even Holmes condescended to dance a reel with a giggling Mrs Cecil Forrester, politely holding the disdain back from his face. I twirled my wife about, and noticed no pain at all in my leg and shoulder, floating on an intoxicating cloud of music and jubilation and vigour.

I was carrying a laughing, squealing Mary back over the threshold to our new little home, and up the stairs. We renewed the excitement and anticipation we had kindled from our previous passionate embrace. Kissing her the whole while, lightheaded with wonder, I had unfastened the buttons on the exquisite dress she had worn, one by one, as she performed the same office for my shirt. I was lying beside her, our bodies now as entwined as our souls, familiarising myself with her beautiful contours for the first time, my heart and body thrilling as I realised she had no regard for the philosophy that a wife must endure without enjoying. It was a blissful exploration for both of us; she never having experienced such pleasures before, and I never with such love to enhance them. As I held her in my arms the next morning, after such a night of breathless elation as I had never yet known, I was awed by the realisation that I would wake every morning like this, with my beloved wife beside me.

I was laughing half-hysterically with her one morning over the breakfast table, over a trouble which had suddenly ceased to be significant.

I was relishing coming home to her after a satisfying yet long day at my surgery, my newfound purpose, youth and energy coaxing the ailing practice back to life.

I was snuggled next to her on the sofa as she consoled with me in my misery at losing a young patient, telling me she was proud of me, and considered me an excellent doctor.

I was basking in the pleasure at having persuaded Holmes to join us for dinner, despite his usual reticence, and vicarious pride in both my wife, and my best friend, as a convivial evening flew by.

I was excitedly reciting my adventures with Holmes to my attentive wife, and she was hanging off my every word, exclaiming, genuinely enthralled, and making me feel like the greatest raconteur who ever lived.

I was lying with my head buried in her lap, her fingers stroking my hair, my tears soaking her dress, as she whispered "hush" over and over again, to comfort, not to suppress, as my tormented heart wrung itself with grief and guilt over the loss of Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach.

I was holding both her hands and spinning around the living room for joy, when she broke the news to me that I was to be a father.

I was standing behind her with my arms about her, running my hands over her hands and midriff, marvelling at its size, roundness, and incredible promise of a new life, half me and half her. She was turning with a grin to rub her cheek against mine.

I was playfully fanning her as she half-laughingly, have exasperatedly puffed at her size, and at me, rebuking me for stoking the fire so high in the living room that she felt she "must expire like a beached whale" at any moment.

I was rubbing her back, soothingly, as the earliest of her pains started, and we waited for the arrival of Mrs Benton and Anstruther, upon which point we knew I would be unceremoniously ejected from the bedroom.

I was stepping through the bedroom door thrilling with excitement. There was my darling Mary, looking tired and flushed, but cheerful. In her arms was a little white bundle, which she was gazing upon. She lifted her eyes at my approach, and they were glowing with joyfulness.

Mary and I sat, entranced, as our daughter fed. Those moments will forever be sealed on my consciousness as the happiest of my life. No matter what would follow, no matter what trials I had bourn before and would bear subsequently, I would keep this shining moment and relive it, treasure it, and it would never lose its lustre or fade.

And now I was here, and she was beyond my reach. Could she see me, hear me, understand me now?

Elsie wriggled in my arms. I had insisted on carrying her myself. She was dressed in what were to have been her Christening robes – they had been mine, and my father's, and his father's in turn. Mrs Hudson had adjusted them to fit a tinier baby. The white lace was the brighter for the sunshine, in contrast to the uniform black of the other members of the congregation, and I remembered funerals in India, all white under the searing heat of the tropical sun. I recalled thinking at the time it was strange that we claimed the superiority of our God over theirs, yet our rituals of Death were so much more sombre.

Others were throwing handfuls of earth onto the lustrous oak surface six feet below. I threw a small bunch of white snowdrops.

I lifted my daughter so her face snuggled against the crook of my neck, and patted her back tenderly. The sweet smell of her, and the warmth of her body, somehow eased, and intensified, the ache in my soul. There was somebody to live for, someone to take care of. Ruth moved nearer me, and quietly offered to take Elsie, but I smiled and shook my head. I squinted up at the deep, endless blue of the sky, and willed Mary to hear my thoughts, from wherever she was.

_"She will want for nothing, my Darling. No child will know better than she that she is loved. And I will always tell her how wonderful her mother was, and how much you would have longed to be there for her as she grew. Watch over us, if you are able."_ For a moment, an incongruous moment of humour struck me, and I added _"Look after Holmes for me, he needs a Watson to keep him in line_", knowing she would laugh if she could indeed hear me.

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_I'm sure Mary Watson would have done a very good job at keeping an ethereal Sherlock Holmes in line, had he been in a condition to appreciate it. I like her all the more now – wishing I could have spared her, but she had to go._

_What happens next to the widower and his daughter? There will be more to this story eventually; it will be continued in Chapter 8. _

_Please do read and review! Thank you!_


	8. Chapter 8: A little secret

**The Doctor's Daughter**

**Chapter 8: A little secret **

The service was over, and a small group of us were to repair to my house for refreshments, prepared by the capable hands of Mrs Hudson and Ruth. Whilst they worked, I had minded the children – I recognised both women had thought I should be kept occupied, even if it were with such a traditionally female role. Little Sam, Ruth's newborn, was a trifle colicky, and liked to be held. Isobel, at three years old, was a motherly wee soul, and solemnly shared my responsibilities. When Sam was quiet, she curled up on my knee, and I read to her from the picture books I had brought home, rather prematurely, for Elsie, along with Mary's snowdrops. She giggled merrily enough at the funny passages, which I performed for her with a series of silly voices, yet otherwise, she instinctively recognised my great sadness. She stroked my shoulder soothingly, as her mother must have done for her, and used a hushed little voice. These tactics were ludicrously comforting, and had eased the potential awfulness of the morning of my dear wife's funeral.

I reflected now upon my gratitude for having the house filled with the sounds of these formal and informal additions to my family. I do not think I could have borne returning to a home filled with past echoes but otherwise horrifyingly empty. I shuddered at the thought.

The other funeral guests were beginning to cluster around me, and I had to abandon my introversion. I responded automatically to their comments and condolences, thinking how much less real these interactions seemed than those with the children. Then Lestrade, with whom I had maintained a sporadic communication since Holmes' death, sidled up to me, and muttered something in my ear which brought me instantly back to myself.

"I'm afraid I've got some bad news, Doctor. Looks like folk have got wind of poor Mrs Watson's passing. That ghastly Drayton is lurking around outside the churchyard, along with several other hacks. He'll be wanting to get lurid quotes for his horrid rag. Nothing I can do to move them along, but I'd work out what you want to say if I were you, Doctor, if you don't want something made up for you. Also, no-one knows about Elsie yet."

I knew suddenly with utter conviction that I wanted things to say that way. Once, an enemy made through my association with Holmes, had attempted to slash Mary's face with a knife, and I had had more than one malicious threat directed against her, in an ploy to wound me. I had bitterly regretted naming her, in my overwhelming pride at winning her, and always made certain to refer to her as "my wife" only from that day on.

With Elsie, and her little adoptive siblings, I would carry this policy further. I felt sick and lightheaded at the thought of some vindictive criminal attempting to hurt her; to protect her, she should remain publicly unacknowledged. Nobody whom I would not willingly invite into my home would know I was a father, if I could possibly help it. I would have to prevent Drayton from guessing the identity of the tiny baby emerging from the private churchyard.

Drayton was one of the most malevolent reporters it has ever been my misfortune to meet, and had maintained a one-man campaign of spite against Holmes and myself, which ranged from casting doubt upon the detective's accomplishments to making cruel innuendoes about our relationship. His hatred had sprung from Holmes putting his brother in gaol, and had been fanned by my late friend's attitude of indifferent contempt. I would not put it past him to name my daughter, or even plant the seed of an idea in the mind of his readers that she could be used against me. I would not allow this.

I rapidly formulated a plot. I beckoned Anstruther, newly recovered, although still heavily muffled against the crisp air. He still bore an air of guilt, and my sympathy extended towards him, my earlier irrational resentment fully dissipated. He would benefit from being of use to me.

"Anstruther, old chap, Inspector Lestrade informs me there is a vindictive presence waiting outside for us – remember Drayton, the reporter?"

"That swine?!" Exclaimed my friend, indignantly. "I'll ram his teeth down his throat if he attempts to accost you at a time like this."

"I think there is little doubt he will do so," I replied, dryly. "However, I would like to beg a favour of you, which demands a far more inconspicuous response."

"Name it, old man," replied he.

"I do not wish the public to know I have a daughter. It will be safer for her to remain anonymous, at least until Holmes' memory is less raw in the mind of London's criminals. Would you and Ruth pose together as a couple as we leave, and carry Elsie? If we cover her robe up with a shawl, she will be less eye-catching."

"Of course. Eminently more sensible than my idea." He answered, fairly ruefully.

Ruth and he carried out their role to perfection, and Mrs Hudson's rebuking the reporters was a sight to behold. I muttered commonplaces, and allowed myself to be bustled away, the picture of hopeless grief. It was not a difficult role to fulfil. Releasing my grip on Elsie, even for only ten minutes, stirred up my distress most painfully.

Back in the house, I almost snatched my daughter from Ruth's arms, and carried her with me whilst I made desultory, strained conversation with my guests. I knew I should be laying her down for her rest, but for the time being, I knew I could not survive this ordeal without her. I longed for everybody to leave, so I could draw a line under this day, and be with my memories of my wife again.

When everybody did leave, I perversely wished for them to return, as being alone with my thoughts, without distraction, was suddenly close to overwhelming.

I paced the quiet house, unable to decide what to do with myself. I then remembered Mary's letter. I had been unable to bring myself to read it yet, and even now it was a frightening prospect, yet it was the right time. I crept upstairs to the bedroom cabinet, as if I feared I would wake whoever was sleeping there. With trembling fingers, I withdrew the envelope, and, settling on Mary's side of the bed, opened it. The much-loved handwriting was a little shaky, but still spoke of the resolute character of the magnificent lady who had penned it. I began to read.

* * *

_What did Mary wish to say for her husband before she died? Continued in chapter 9._

_Please read and review._


	9. Chapter 9: Mary's letter

**The Doctor's Daughter**

**Chapter 9: Mary's letter**

_My Dearest, Darling Love, John,_

_As I write this letter, I know I may not live long beyond finishing it. If you are reading it, then I am dead. I am so sorry, for you, and for our beautiful Elspeth Grace. I tremble at the thought of living life without you, and hate that this is in essence what you will have to endure. I could not leave without setting down a tiny fraction of what I feel for you, that you may take it up and read it when missing me becomes particularly strong, or remembering becomes difficult. I shall try to say it to you in person, so that you can recall my words spoken as you read. _

_Know then, John, that no-one has ever been so loved as you have been. I love you beyond reason, and beyond life. Even now, as in all probability I lie dying, the thought of you buoys me up, and I smile at the thought of you. I am trying to pour my heart into this ink as I write, all the love, passion, tenderness, affection and respect I feel for you. I am aware that I do not usually speak with such intensity, so I hope you do not lose my voice in this emotional outpouring, but believe me, it is not hyperbole. I could never overstate my love._

_Not many people can say that they would choose their spouse over a fortune, I am fortunate enough to be able to say I did so. When the Agra treasure was lost, I felt nothing but the most profound relief, as I was now accessible again. When you then confirmed what I had suspected and prayed for, I felt such joy that even now, I am smiling for the wonderfulness of it as I write. That I was right to feel so has only been strengthened every day that I have been married to you, my dearest love. You have been a wonderful husband. I have never been so very happy as the five years we have spent together. I only wish it could have been fifty – but it would still not have been enough._

_Please, do not waste who you are. When the worst of your grief has faded, look about you again. I would wish you to marry again. Give Elsie a new mother, but, selfishly perhaps, I must beg you not to let her forget the old one, and how very much she loved her. I have written to her already. I wrote to her first, as I knew if my strength failed, I could tell you in person how I felt, but now I am determined to finish this._

_I would like to make some requests, and give some advice, about raising our daughter. It is perhaps presumptuous of me, as I have not been a parent before either, but I have assisted in the raising of many children, and I look about me as I go through life. Do not be afraid of carrying this out – I have known many wonderful Papa's, but I imagine you will be the best of them. You must believe this._

_Let our daughter know she is loved and cherished, but do not spoil her. She will feel more secure if she knows she has a strong Papa, who is in charge, and will guide her footsteps. Do not always let her have her own way, but do not feel you must never let her have her own way either. A little indulgence can go a long way, and she will love you the more if she is taught to appreciate it. Ask obedience of her, but do not forbid her to question you. Occasionally, allow her to cheek you and tease you a little, and laugh with her, but do not allow her to go too far, and be consistent._

_Little girls like to be prettily dressed, so let her have some pretty clothes. However, for normal wear, let her be dressed in normal, practical clothes, so that she may play outside without being oppressed by the fear of dirtying herself. I'm sure Mrs Forrester will help you in this. Do not be afraid of accepting hand-me downs; it is companionable. Mrs Hudson could also advise you, but please do not ask Mrs Anstruther; she is a lovely woman, but has no taste! _

_Let her not want for dolls and toys, and sometimes bring her home a treat. However, do not let her be showered with gifts, as it can be overwhelming, and lessens the value of each. The same goes for sweetmeats and the like._

_I should like her to have pets, and to spend time in the countryside. Children can learn so much through animals and nature._

_Let her be well educated. I should like her to attend a good day-school when she is older; I know you will ensure they are kind. Read to her, teach her a little yourself, she will learn it so much the better if she does it to please her Papa. Listen to her recite her lessons, and help her with them. Another thing I must ask you; times are changing – please change with them. In Elsie's lifetime, I think we may see women granted a greater role in society. Perhaps one day we may be granted suffrage, and allowed a greater choice of careers. You know how I feel about this. So let Elsie study what she is interested in. Do not let prudish convention dictate what is "suitable" for a girl, and what she can and cannot learn. If she is interested in medicine, which I suspect she may be, let her study sciences. Who knows, perhaps one day, there may even be woman doctors!_

_Tell her how we met. Tell her about Mr Sherlock Holmes, my main rival for your affections, as we used to joke - I shall say hallo to him for you when I meet him! Elsie will love to hear your adventures, especially the exciting ones, if she listens to you whilst tucked up cosily in bed with you at her bedside to scare the monsters away. Sing her lullabies afterwards when she is a little girl. My strongest memory of my mother is of her singing to me when I was a tiny child – I felt so safe._

_Please continue to publish your tales of Mr Holmes, if you wish. They are an important chapter of your life, and, were he still with you, I should be encouraging you to step out upon adventures with him still, and then return home to tell your daughter all about them. However, please do not mention Elsie in anything you write for the public eye. There will still be people abroad who hate his memory, and I am frightened lest they should try to hurt you through her. I know you still take an interest in the more intriguing criminal matters, and I think you should continue to do so – it is a part of you – so long as Elsie stays separate from it – although by all means, regale her with tales._

_Please, tell her stories of me too. Just the little things; they are so important when they build up to a big picture. On her birthday, and mine, please visit my grave and bring me flowers! They will have to be hot-house bred, I suspect, on most years, but if ever there are wild snowdrops again, I would prefer those. I should like a little garden upon my grave, and for you both to tend it. Talk to me, tell me your news, whenever you visit. When Elsie is older, I should like her to draw a picture and write to me – I believe she will enjoy it. Do not let it be a sombre occasion, and do not let it spoil her birthday!_

_Please, John, sometimes visit me alone, that we two may be together. Talk to me. Recall the many times when we were happy. I will do my best to join you. Perhaps it could be just you and I on the anniversary of our wedding? Even if you marry again, I hope your new wife will be the kind of woman who accepts this. I should understand if I were in her position. _

_If ever you wonder, about anything, what to do for the best, and wish you could have me there to advise you, just do as you think best. I will always support your decisions._

_I am becoming tired now, John. There is so much more I should wish to say to you, but the body is weak, though the spirit be ever so willing. However, I must keep this short. _

_For yourself, continue to be the fun-loving, joyous man I married. Keep up your love of reading, writing, music and sport. Continue avidly devouring new articles in the medical journals, and reading the paper over breakfast. Continue to eat properly and enjoy your food. Do not let all my hard work in fattening you up a little go to waste! Don't forget to laugh often, even if sometimes you must cry. You are so strong, and you care for people so very much – do not shut them out now. Go to your club, keep up with your friends – sometimes you will need adult companionship._

_Remember me. Take comfort that I have always known how very, very much you love me. Do not ever regret that you married me, and that such sad consequences resulted from the birth of our daughter – I would not change having had her for the world. No guilt, John, and sorrow in moderation. Continue to live your life to the full. _

_I have smudged the ink. Never mind, tears are natural and healing in these circumstances – take it as proof of the depth of my feeling._

_I love you, John. Let me write it one last time. I love you._

_Goodbye, John, my Dearest, Sweetest Love, and God Bless_

_Ever Yours,_

_Mary_

I finished reading, my cheeks wet with the tears which streamed freely down them. I clutched the letter to my chest, rocking slightly. Yet I knew this had indeed been healing. How had she known so much of what I had been thinking this afternoon? Even though the practical side of my brain told me it was because we knew one another intimately, another part of me could almost believe she was with me now. I kissed the letter and dashed my tears away. Ruth would take care of Elsie tonight. I curled up on my own side of the bed, but with my head on Mary's pillow, her scent still lingering, her letter placed in my breast pocket over my heart, to spend this night beside my wife.

* * *

_Boo-hoo! _

_I once read about a Mum with cancer writing a guide for her husband on practical child-rearing tips, and thought it was one of the most poignant things I'd ever heard. _

_Right, I don't think I can bear tormenting poor Watson any more, so the next chapter is the Epilogue, and hopefully will see him beginning to recover...._

_If I haven't made you feel too miserable to bother, please read and review._


	10. 10: Epilogue

**The Doctor's Daughter**

**Epilogue**

_Five months later_

I stood upon step five of seventeen in the hallway of 221B Baker Street, grinning broadly at the form, still-thrilling, of Sherlock Holmes, standing upon the landing. My friend mirrored my grin, his prominent canines, the left slightly crooked, glinting in a slightly feral fashion.

"Ah, Watson, thank you for coming. Now tell me, does anything about this hallway strike you as different?"

I ascended to join Holmes.

"The wardrobe is new. Or new to you, I should say. It looks rather worn."

"Yes, doesn't it? It is supposed to. New furniture can be so obtrusive, and this blends in so perfectly." He ran his hand down the mellow wood, then opened the door, to reveal a miscellaneous collection of coats, wraps, hats and mufflers within. He turned to me with a mischievous expression, his entire being seeming to spark and bubble with suppressed excitement.

"Now tell me, friend Watson, does this appear to you to be an ordinary wardrobe?"

"What are you up to, Holmes?"

"Scheming. Plotting. All aimed at discovering a respectable compromise whereby my biographer can once more become my house-mate."

***************

Sherlock Holmes had been back in London for over six weeks at this point, and, as I have expressed, I was still basking in the joy of having my dear friend returned to me. He could not have come at a better time – my shock at losing Mary had begun to transform into a quiet desolation, only exacerbated by my lack of companionship.

I had remained superficially friendly with Anstruther, but an awkwardness had entered our intercourse, whether real, or imagined by myself, I could not be certain, but I found myself avoiding the man whose illness may have indirectly led to my beloved wife's death. Thurston and Dobbs at my club were no better company, as they were both evidently prostrated with embarrassment surrounding what one could say to a widower in deep mourning. I had had a quiet beer or two with Lestrade, and idly chatted with Mrs Hudson whenever she came to call, and Ruth was pleasant to be around, but these interactions were no replacement for those of a long and intimate relationship.

The children were a bright spot, but I found myself craving adult companionship, the kind where I did not need to complete my sentences, and did not have to justify my opinions. Like Mary. Like Holmes.

I continued to work. I confess I rather overdid it at first, throwing myself into the practice with fevered zeal – although my lunch hour was sacred, for spending with my daughter. Many of my patients had heard or read of my sad bereavement. Some of them were a source of comfort to me – the calm-eyed two years widowed solicitor who wrung my hand, and quietly ensured me that, although it would never, should never, go away, it would become easier in time. Others were less salubrious, and came, on the narrowest of pretexts, to gawp, until I felt like a bird of some drab plumage hunched over a label reading "_Widower"_ at the zoo.

It was in an attempt to shake off this maudlin self-consciousness that I had headed to Park Lane, clutching eagerly at a mystery that I hoped would preoccupy me with external stimuli, to interest myself in the murder of the unfortunate Ronald Adair. It had not been a successful venture, serving only to remind me of the absence of Holmes, and to draw attention to all the loss in the world. My steps homeward had been heavy indeed, and, as I had sagged into my consulting-room chair, I had felt that even the air I breathed was weighted and leaden. I had scarcely been able to summon my habitual mask of courtesy when the elderly bookseller was ushered into my presence.

Then had come that moment which I still count amongst the greatest moments of my life – not the very first instance of seeing Holmes standing before me; shock had predominated there, as evidenced by my unfortunate weakness. It was the regaining of my senses, and seeing him, still there, not a phantom or a figment of my imagination, but real and solid and vital. I believe my depression was lifted away and I grasped the implications of his return that very instant. _No more loneliness!_ Nothing could fill the aching hole left by Mary, but Holmes fulfilled that much longed for role of intimate companion. I believe my imagination had leaped ahead to sharing rooms in Baker Street again before I had even asked him how he came to be alive.

Holmes had heard of Mary's death.

"I am deeply sorry, my friend," was what he said, but his face and movements spoke louder. He then briskly declared that work was the best antidote for sorrow, and would I care to join him on a notable piece? I thrilled at the prospect, whilst still appreciating the caressing softness of his voice, and the reflected grief and sympathy in his eyes. He declared that we had three years of the past to catch up on, until the adventure was to commence.

"In which case, Holmes, I must introduce you to the lady in my life," I said, rather shyly, as I was uncertain what Holmes' reaction to babies would be. A look of bewilderment bordering on shock crossed his face, and I stared at him.

"You did not know about Elsie, Holmes?"

"Elsie?" he echoed in puzzlement, and I wondered how it was he did not know, as I had assumed his source of information would be Mycroft, and Mycroft had been present at Mary's funeral. Perhaps the elder Holmes brother had decided this was news I should be given the opportunity of imparting myself, as I had missed so many other important moments with the younger.

"Come with me." I led the way up the stairs, and I turned to see dawning understanding in Holmes' eyes. I entered the nursery. Ruth was downstairs, and Elsie was lying awake in her cot. She turned her head as she heard me, one of her newest tricks, and cooed delightedly.

"Hallo, my girl," I said tenderly as I scooped her up. "Oof! Quite a weight you're getting."

If Elsie had been appealing as a newborn, she was preternaturally delightful as a four-month old – at least, so her Papa considered. Her face creased in her wide smile, and enormous blue-grey-green eyes looked all around her at the exciting world she inhabited. She waved her chubby fists and let out a trilling cadence of giggles. I think she knew she was on show, and she rose to the occasion.

I turned almost nervously to Holmes, expecting his usual mask-like expression when in the presence of sentiment. It was absent. In its place was an expression of genuine, heartfelt delight.

"Watson! I had no idea! I can't believe I had no idea! I assumed the rattle and stuffed mammal at the foot of the stairs were left by a young patient – just goes to show one should never theorise with insufficient data! She certainly is bonny. May I?" Somewhat to my astonishment, he held out his hands. I quickly recovered myself.

"Of course. She likes men. Actually, she likes almost everybody, except the vicar's wife, insufferable woman, and poor Mrs Anstruther, whom we tell she only likes men."

Holmes laughed, and I settled Elsie in his arms. She reached up and patted his face; he solemnly offered her his watch-chain, and she clutched it in her little hand, a beatific smile upon her face, kicking her legs energetically. He inspected her features with the minute attention to detail I expected of him, and I covertly inspected his own features, scarce able to believe he was returned to me.

"Good Day, Miss Watson. You have a strong look of your father."

"That's a relief."

"You have inherited many of your mother's features also. The pinna are exactly Mrs Watson's, as are the nares."

I smiled. "I am glad she has, Holmes. As you can imagine, that has been a great source of comfort to me". Again, the kind reply was conveyed more by small actions than words.

Holmes held Elsie for several moments more, talking to her as if she were an intelligent adult, which fascinated her. Ruth then returned to the room with Sam and Isobel, and I elatedly and dramatically introduced Holmes. Her astonished response was all I could have desired, and Isobel too exclaimed that she thought he had gone to Heaven.

"Not yet, Miss Brown," he had answered, with a twinkle.

Then came the dramatic adventure of the Empty House, and the conclusion of three very difficult years for my friend. As we sat together in Baker Street, following the denouement, I felt more utterly at home than I had done since Mary had died. It occurred to me that it takes more than bricks and mortar to make a home, and the heart had left the house in Kensington when Mary died. I felt a powerful longing to return to my old chamber, and to spend my evening smoking my pipe in my old chair in front of the fire. It would not do though. 221B Baker Street was no place for a baby girl. It would be neither respectable, nor safe.

Holmes appreciated this opinion when he sounded me out about moving back in, but he could not have missed the wistfulness I was unable to conceal.

"If it were not for Elsie and my practice, I would love to move back in, Holmes, but you will allow that they are two very substantial objections."

"Of course, old fellow. This is not a suitable abode for a young lady. Mrs Hudson would have apoplexy."

"Mrs Hudson would never allow it. She would say it was not respectable, and inappropriate. I am afraid she would be right. Besides, it is too dangerous for a child to live here – you would be the first to admit some of your clients are less than savoury, and I have taken great pains to protect her from publicity. Mary wished it."

"Quite so. You kindly do not mention my smattering the place over with arcane acids and poisons. I suppose I must regretfully believe that Elsie is a tenable bar to reanimating our comfortable bachelor existence." I could not quite conceal my wince at Holmes' thoughtless use of the word "bachelor", and the unuttered alternative, "widower", that clattered through my mind. Holmes, of course, observed it, and his face briefly drew tight with mortification. To spare both our feelings, he rapidly carried the conversation forwards. "Your practice, on the other hand – do I detect its delights are paling?"

I sighed, complying. "You do. I would sell it if I could. It has lost much of its appeal. If I could sell it, I would sell the house also, and move back closer to Baker Street, find a smaller practice, perhaps shared with a partner."

"Well, why not do so, Watson? It seems an excellent compromise, and I would, as ever, be happy to receive you whenever you needed a port in a storm."

I contemplated the fire for a long moment. The practice had been my pride and joy, and it was with energy and passion that I had built it up. I had to confess that the passion had gone, and the entire venture seemed tainted by the death of the woman who had shared it with me.

"You may be right. I shall certainly give the matter serious consideration."

"Excellent!" Declared he, rubbing his long hands together.

****************

Six weeks later, and I was obediently inspecting the back of what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary wardrobe upon the landing of 221B.

"Holmes, I am sure it must seem to you that I have achieved new realms of density since your return, but I fail to see the connection between an old wardrobe and our cohabiting."

"Actually, you _have_ failed to see. The connection is hiding behind old mackintosh, out of your line of vision. "

I moved the garment to one side. There was a barely visible ring etched upon the wood. I ran my fingers over it, and felt the surface yield slightly. Intrigued, I pushed downwards, and a small disc of wood, mounted upon a spring, slid inwards, allowing me to slip my fingers behind the centre of the ring. Experimentally, I gave it a tug, and it swivelled outwards.

"Twist it." Said Holmes, a strange little smile upon his face. As I obeyed, I felt the latch mechanism click, and the back of the wardrobe opened outwards. Astonished, I stepped through the opening, and found myself in the corresponding landing of 219. Holmes followed me, looking uncharacteristically anxious. Wordlessly, but with a little clearing of his throat, he opened the landing door, and gestured for me to step through.

The little sitting room was simply and tastefully furnished, but my attention was captured by a smart rocking horse standing by the window. Numbly, I walked up to it, and placed my hand upon its mane. It was real horse hair.

Still nervous, still not speaking, Holmes then opened the door which would correspond with his own bedroom, and waved a hand at the interior. By now, I knew what I would find before I entered. A cot with a wooden mobile hanging above it stood in the centre of the room. Books and trinkets stood upon the shelves, a cheerfully painted toy-chest stood in one corner, and the walls were painted a delicate blue. It was unmistakably a little girl's room, and I stared about me, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling as my stunned brain began to absorb the implications of all this.

"Mrs Hudson and Mrs Brown were responsible for the decor and furnishings, and Miss Brown apparently took most enthusiastically to her role of choosing the rocking horse and the china doll. The Browns, incidentally, are very pleased with their upper chambers." Holmes was attempting to speak casually, but I knew him well enough to detect the hoarse note in his voice. "I hope this arrangement will be agreeable to you? Mrs Hudson suggested it, knowing that it was vacant, although I confess the further adaptations were my own idea. Now you have a buyer for your practice, I hope you will be able to support me with half the rent in 221B; call this extension an investment."

I could not answer him; my heart was too full. My knees began to tremble, and I sank down upon the toy chest, and covered my face with my hands, breathing heavily. I felt Holmes sit next to me, and lay a hand briefly upon my shoulder.

I concentrated upon breathing, until my whirling mind began to slow back to functioning level, and I was able to compose myself. I then turned to face my friend, and looked into the grey eyes, hooded yet intense.

"I cannot thank you enough, Holmes. I do not know what I have done to deserve such kindness in my life; all I can do is wholeheartedly appreciate it. I would be overjoyed to move back in with you, and this arrangement is perfect."

" The outside world need never even realise there is any connection between the houses, as we need never use the same front door. Elsie need never be threatened, even if you are followed home." Stated Holmes, unnecessarily.

I looked around me, and shook my head in wonderment. "I will never get your limits, Holmes."

"Well, I am an odd chap, and I daresay I shall change them often enough." He declared flippantly, relief at my acceptance blossoming into sparkling high spirits and lending him a lightness I associated with dinner at Simpsons and the successful conclusion of a case.

"When do you wish to show your Goddaughter her new quarters?" I asked, and was delighted to see the blush of surprise and pleasure colour to his thin cheeks. I had not had Elsie Christened yet, and had been wondering if Holmes would accept the role. "If, that is, you don't mind..."

"...I would be deeply honoured," he answered, as he had done when I had asked him to stand as groomsman, yet this time with more evident sincerity. "And, in answer to your other question, how about after we have celebrated our new living arrangements with dinner at Simpsons?"

*************

I surveyed my old room, newly furnished with my belongings, and looking as if I had never left it. There was one important addition to make. Carefully, I extracted from its box the framed photograph, and placed it reverently upon the bedside table. From it, my wife smiled out at me, our newborn daughter in her arms.

"I could not stay in our own home without you, Mary. But you are very welcome here, you know." I told her. She smiled understandingly. As I studied it, I was sure her face showed her approval. I lightly kissed both occupants of the frame, and replaced it upon the table. I then took up the photograph of my little family of three, and slipping it under my arm, proceeded on my way to find a space for it in my daughter's new bedroom. I would then tuck her into her new bed, before retiring to smoke a companionable pipe in my old chair in front of the fire with my dearest friend.

*********************** _The End ... For Now **************************_

_Well, thank you for sticking with me. Hope it wasn't too horribly sentimental for you. I felt I could get away with Elsie – after all, she doesn't have to get in the way of the canon – I wouldn't write about my daughter in the Strand if I lived with a best friend who foiled murderers for a living! I hope nobody is too annoyed with me for not killing her!_

_Had to give her a blue bedroom after Stephen Fry explained on TV recently how blue used to be associated with girls and pink with boys. I love useless trivia!_

_Please do review! And if anyone wants to make suggestions for Elsie's future, I'm listening..._


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